Of Lions and Tigers
by nvzblgrrl
Summary: Richard Parker is a 21 year old Eton graduate with an almost Hobbit-like revulsion for adventures and the like. He knows, just as anyone else does, of how well Richard Parkers and adventures mix. However, come November 1st of 1981, he simply will no longer have a choice in the matter. HarryW/DifferentGuardian, slight crossover elements, OCs.
1. Chapter 1

**Of Lions And Tigers**

**Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This should be obvious from the lack of... well, everything, I guess.  
**

Richard Parker, of apartment number four-thirteen b, Osborn Street, Whitechapel, London, Greater London, so on and so forth, was very proud to say that his life was perfectly mundane, thank you very much. He was the least likely person you'd expect to be involved in anything dangerous or daring, because he had read all about what sort of things happened to Richard Parkers who got it into their heads to go on adventures. Needless to say, it usually didn't end well for the Parker in question.

Richard was the owner of a bookshop called Blackwell's, which was mostly stocked with titles that had once been bestsellers many decades he was born. He was a tall, wiry man with a shock of dark hair that refused to lay flat under any circumstance and hazel eyes that glinted flintily behind his round glasses. It was his family's opinion that there was no greater disappointment to their name anywhere.

Richard Parker had quite a lot to his name, the most of which were his store, his apartment, and his Eton education. None of these were much to sneeze at, as very few twenty-one year olds owned solid businesses, rented out very reasonable apartments, or had the various perks associated with an Eton education. But Richard Parker did have these things, and he paid little mind to the seeming unfairness of it all. He had worked for every pound of it and if someone else decided that it was unfair, then it would be their job to cry about it.

When Richard woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the clouded sky outside that would suggest that this day be any different than the day before or that anything mysterious or unusual would be happening anywhere else in the country. To any resident of Whitechapel, a dull, grey Tuesday was just another Tuesday, so Richard began preparing for his day, carefully selecting his Old Etonian tie to go with his typical black three piece suit.

He did not notice the great horned owl that had swept past his window as silent as nightfall.

At half past eight, Richard picked up his suitcase, which contained a few books that he had brought home to finish repairing and left, only pausing to double check the lock on his door. "Call me paranoid." He mumbled under his breath to no-one in particular before pocketing his key and descending into the Underground to catch the tube.

His day had actually managed to go by quite pleasantly. He had finished all of his repair work with very little trouble, received three complete copies of 'The White Company' from one of his suppliers and sold a whole crate full of clingy penny dreadfuls that had been sitting around for months. If the shop had been organized differently and if the window was a cleaned a bit more vigorously, perhaps Richard would have noticed the people outside dressed in cloaks, gossiping amongst each other of a great event in their world. But currently, his main concerns were reattaching the entire cover and spine of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ and unsticking the pages of a much abused 19th century medical textbook without losing any of the text contained therein. Lost in the delicacy of his work, Richard Parker was in the best mood that he ever was, with a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he coaxed yet another damaged lexicon to open up without a fight. It wasn't until lunchtime that he actually came into contact with one of the strange groups loitering around outside.

He had eyed them carefully as he passed them. Not too many people went around wearing cloaks in this day and age, and those that did only really dared do it in public on Halloween. Richard's eye twitched at the thought that, just perhaps, he had just become a character in the background of a modern fantasy novel. "No adventures." He muttered as he shook his head free of the disquieting thought. As he was returning from collecting the simple bagel that would serve as his midday meal, he caught snippets of whispered conversations.

"Yeah, he was up to Godric's Hollow, I hear –"

"-went and got the Potters, I remember them from school-"

"-their son, Harry -"

Richard grimaced. He had been worried about adventures, of all the silly things, and some poor family was cooling in the morgue. Sometimes he could really get disgusted with himself. He tore off a chunk of bagel while leaning against the outside of his shop because the easiest way to clean up crumbs in a bookstore was to not drop them in a bookstore in the first place.

"Excuse me, dear." A kindly voice asked. Richard turned to face a squat little woman with a kind face and a battered hat that would have been better suited for Halloween rather than the streets of London on a non-holiday. "You wouldn't happen to be James Potter masquerading as a Muggle, would you? I've heard a most frightful rumor and I'd rather hear it proved wrong…" The faint hum of gossip shut down as all heads swiveled towards Richard and woman.

"Sorry." Richard said quickly. "Not him."

The woman smiled apologetically. "I just had to make sure, with a face like that. Doesn't do a teacher any good to hear about her dead students, you know. Especially the ones that had so much potential."

Richard gave a non-committal 'mmm' before escaping back into his shop. It was a lot more difficult to focus on books after a conversation like that. He was completely and utterly rattled. He had been mistaken for a dead man. He had also been called a Muggle, which was odder than odd considering what it _actually_ meant. So he closed up early, only at five rather than his usual seven, scuttling off home with only one or two of the slowly dispersing gossipers actually noticing him this time.

As he unlocked the door to his apartment, the phone began ringing. Picking it up, Richard was relieved to hear the voice of one of his oldest and best suppliers, Mr. Elkhart, who invited him for high tea.

"That would be… yes, yes, yes, I mean. It has been a most peculiar day." Richard sighed.

Mr. Elkhart laughed. "Most certainly then, Mr. Parker. I shall see you at seven o'clock, at number three…"

"Privet Drive, sir. It is not as if you house has sprouted legs and moved since my last visit." Richard finished. "I'll be there on the next train." He swept up an evening coat before leaving his apartment once more.

An hour later, Richard Parker was walking along the sidewalk that framed the edges of each perfectly trimmed and depressingly identical front yard. He took half a moment to study the tortoiseshell cat that studied him so intensely from number four's garden wall. "Don't judge me if you don't know me, cat." He muttered, prompting the cat to huff as if personally offended by his comment. Was that normal cat behavior? Richard wondered for a moment. Finally satisfied with how well he had managed to pull himself together, he knocked on his friend's door, the cat watching him the whole time.

Mr. Elkhart himself had had a nice, normal day. He had regaled his young friend with a tale of how his neighbor's ghastly brat had mistaken a mothball lost from someone's moving house for some odd candy and had instantly popped the thing into his fat gob, then cried like a lost lamb.

Richard himself thought that it was a bit much to be laughing at the misfortune of a small child, but who was he to judge? Perhaps the child was the prince of brats. He himself had known some children to be completely incorrigible in their pettiness, even taking it through their secondary years, when they were supposed to be becoming respectable young adults.

He told his friend of the strange encounter he had with the woman earlier, and of the way that every head on the street had turned to stare at him. Mr. Elkhart had gone quiet at that for a moment, before speaking his piece. "I knew of James Potter. Pity he won't get to grow into the man his father was. Started out a pretty princeling brat himself, but smarted himself up as soon as it mattered." Elkhart gave Richard a shrewdly appraising look. "A bit like yourself, Mr. Parker." He raised a hand to keep Richard from speaking. "Prideful and more than a bit stubborn, but good at the core. Can you at least agree that you are at least that, Mr. Parker?"

Richard sighed. "I can admit that much, I think. But what happened with that?"  
"I'm afraid that's confidential, my boy. Can't say much more than that without getting in some sort of trouble. But he probably went down protecting someone precious to him. They wouldn't have got him any other way."

It was dark now, their conversation having carried on past eleven. Almost every other light on the street had since gone out, with families having turned in at a reasonable hour.

"You might as well stay in the guest room for the night, Mr. Parker." Mr. Elkhart said. "Tis a bit late for walking alone."

Richard 'Hmm'ed in agreement, but something kept his eyes fixed on the darkened street. Some sense of destiny tingled in his shoulders and fingertips. He hated it, especially the sense of being on the cusp of an adventure, but what could he possibly do to fight off a _feeling_?

He sat in the guest room, watching the street in the dark, long into the night. Richard's eyes sparked into full awareness as a strange figure stepped out from seeming nowhere into the street. Tall, thin, and wearing a purple cloak that swept the ground, the figure was almost Merlin-like in ways, knowing eyes sweeping the street, obviously looking for something. Richard Parker doubted that this man was a regular visitor around this whitewashed suburban purgatory.

The wizard- for what else could this grand, mysterious figure be? – pulled a silver thing, that had the general likeness of a lighter, out of some inner pocket, raised it in salute of some unsung song, and then began to click it rhythmically. With each click, one of the street lamps blinked out, deepening the night in slow steps, until nothing but the half cloaked moon and the smoldering eyes of the cat-that-would-not-leave to glow in the murk. It was almost impossible to see anything else, causing Richard to grind his teeth. This was most definitely an adventure, one that he was privy to and most likely going to be dragged along on, and here he was contemplating crawling out of the window and into the bushes to eavesdrop on wizards! Some part of Richard Parker absently wondered exactly when his sanity went out the window.

Richard decided to go out the back door, quietly shutting it behind him and feeling the lock set in its cradle. He frowned at the thought of waiting outside for however many hours it would take for Mr. Elkhart to wake up and find him outside, covered in the morning dew.

"Feh." He finally muttered before crouching along the side of the house. He had wizards to spy on.

A woman was speaking that Richard hadn't realized was present. "…Harry Potter come and live here!" Her tone was incredulous. Richard's eyes narrowed at the name. Dead Potters, living Potters, Potters that were supposed to be dead but were alive all the same…

A man's voice, most likely the impressive wizard from before, replied firmly. "It's the best place for him. His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

'A letter?' Richard mouthed in disbelief.

"A letter?" The woman parroted, her voice faint and just as incredulously as Richard's unspoken thought had been. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain this in a letter? These people… They will never understand him! He'll be famous- a legend even- I wouldn't be surprised if they made today a holiday after him someday- there will be books about Harry Potter- there won't be a person in our world who doesn't know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Richard thought that this was, overall, a very bad move. It would be like handing a credit card to a kid who has never had two pence to rub together and then setting him loose on a mall. He prayed to god that the reasonable sounding woman would have the sense to point this out.

"Yes- yes, you're right, of course."

Small favors were too much to ask for, apparently.

"But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?"

'Your brilliant associate is going to produce the child from out of a hat, obviously.' Richard thought snidely.

"Hagrid's bringing him." Dumbledore said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You thing it –_ wise_ – to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

Richard duly noted that he did not actually say 'yes'.

"I'm not saying that his heart isn't in the right place, but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?"

Richard had a pretty good idea of what it was. It was terribly hard to mistake the rumble of a motorcycle for anything else, even from a distance. The sound intensified, it was almost upon them… And then the monstrous cycle, easily as large as a draft horse, dropped from the heavens like some inorganic angel of fury, its singular eye illuminating the scene in harsh yellow-white.

The motorcycle itself was nothing compared to its mighty rider. To that mountain of a man, the great machine was almost clownish in comparison. The man, presumably the 'careless' Hagrid who had been previously discussed, was too big to be allowed and ten, easily twenty, times more wild than any of the great trophies in the house of Richard's family. But what Richard was now noticing was the swaddle of blankets that the giant held in his arms like fine bone china.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, relief obvious in his voice and stance. "At last. And wherever did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir." The giant said, even as he gingerly dismounted the bike. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir – house was just about gone, but we cleared out before the Muggles started swarmin' around. Lil' tyke fell asleep somewhere over Bristol."

The pair of magical figures bent over to inspect the great Hagrid's delicate cargo, discussing something in hushed tones before Dumbledore picked up the bundle known as Harry Potter and, with all the delicacy of a priest holding a holy relic, began to walk over to number four.

"Could I- could I say goodbye to him, sir?" The giant asked before leaning over young Harry to deliver what must have been a particularly scratchy, whiskery kiss. The howl that came out of the man next nearly made Richard lose his cover.

The severe woman, who Richard had only just gotten to see with the arrival of the motorcycle, shushed Hagrid. "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry!" Sobbed the tender-hearted giant, even as he buried his face into a great spotted handkerchief. "I just c-c-can't stand it – Lily and James dead – an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles."

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," hissed the witch, who Richard found was not being nearly as sympathetic to the giant's situation as Richard himself was.

He looked once more to the sagely Dumbledore, who had already laid the child out on the porch to await either death by frost or getting stepped on by his last living relative.

"Well, that's that." The wizard said finally, as if his task was simply delivering a letter on its lonesome rather than a living, breathing, painfully mortal child. "We've not business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid, voice muffled by the sleeve that had replaced the sodden handkerchief. "I'll be taken Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall – Professor Dumbledore, sir."

The weeping giant swung himself back onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine to life; with a roar it rose into the air and back off into the endless night sky, its harsh light now nothing more than a spots dancing across Richard's vision and a memory.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to the witch before she seemingly disappeared into nothing. Soon the street was illuminated again by the street lamps as the ancient wizard went his own way.

Richard sat for a while, mindful of how suddenly magical folk seemed to come and go where to where they thought they needed to be. But soon enough, waiting became impossible. He carefully picked his way out of the bushes where he had remained hidden for so long without moving, creaking slightly as he finally escaped and made his way to the next door house.

It was easy to pick up the baby and even easier to feel how little heat he had even with his pile of blankets. Richard smiled slightly, willing to wax poetic in his state of sleep deprivation. "I should think that so far as adventures go, a child should not be as deadly for a Richard Parker as a sea voyage. What say you, young Potter?"

Harry Potter moaned in his sleep as he rolled over. Richard smiled, even as he turned to leave. Perhaps this would be one adventure that he would enjoy taking himself.

Neither Harry Potter nor Richard Parker could have known at that very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter – the boy who lived!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Of Lions and Tigers**

**Chapter Two: The Vanishing Glass**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, or any portion thereof, I probably wouldn't have used a somewhat-obscure 13****th**** century Scottish term for an Englishman's tail (yes, I mean the kind of tail that a dog wags) to describe non-magical people.**

Nearly ten years had passed since Richard Parker had secreted away the infant Harry Potter from the front step of number four and adopted the boy, but to look around their shared apartment, still remaining at number four-thirteen b, Osborn Street, one would think that no time had passed at all. The place was just as cluttered with books and devoid of photographs as the day Harry James Potter had become Harry James Parker in the government's eyes. Only a heavily marked up calendar, filled to the absolute limit with deadlines for repairs and appointments with dealers, revealed exactly how much time had actually passed. Besides the occasional appointment that wasn't related to Richard's work, there was no other indication that there even was a child in the home.

Yet Harry Parker was there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. Richard Parker was awake and it was his smooth baritone that made the first noise of the day.

"Are you going to get up on your own or am I going to have to push you off of your bed again?"

Harry groaned as he pulled himself back to consciousness. Richard smirked at the sight.

"Glad to see that doing things the 'hard way' is no longer necessary." He said. Harry groaned again, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he listened to his adopted father walking into the kitchen and putting the frying pan on the stove. He rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one, with a flying motorcycle. It had felt strangely familiar, as if he had the same dream before.

His father was back, leaning against the doorframe, watching Harry blink at the ceiling.

"Aren't you up yet?" He asked, an amused smirk stretched across his face.

"Nearly," Harry said.

"Well, get a move on. I wouldn't want you to miss breakfast before we go into work. It is the most important meal of the day, or so I'm told."

Harry smiled.

It was Saturday – how could he have forgotten such a simple thing? Harry rolled haphazardly out his bed, slowly climbing to his feet as he fumbled for his glasses. Somehow, they had slipped into his sock drawer during the night. It honestly didn't surprise him that they had ended up there; he had the habit of shifting around in his sleep.

When he was fully dressed he went down the hall into the combination kitchen and dining area. The table was almost hidden beneath the piles of books that there just wasn't room for at Blackwell's yet. It looked as if Richard had finally located a complete signed collection of Eve Titus' _Basil of Baker Street _first editions, which were probably going to end up as Harry's birthday present once they were restored. He made a note to avoid looking at them so that the actual surprise would remain for his birthday. That was the least that he could give his father.

Harry was fully aware of the fact that Richard Parker wasn't his father by blood, similar appearances aside, because Richard was forced to explain to the hospital, the school and his stuffy mother in great detail, that Harry was adopted and that because of that, he honestly could not offer up any satisfactory documentation regarding family history or hereditary medical issues.

Perhaps it was because of their frugal and hard-working lifestyle, but Harry had always been skinny for his age. He looked smaller and somehow even skinnier than he really was because of the secondhand clothes that made up most of his wardrobe and Richard was in a habit of buying clothes that were a just a little bigger than what Harry needed so that they would last longer. Harry had a thin face, knobbly elbows and knees, black hair that was somehow even wilder than Richard's, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses, like his guardian, and had a very thin, spidery scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning or, as Richard had pointed out, like the ancient rune Sigel. Harry liked it, not only because it was an interesting thing that was unique to him and him alone, but because it was a symbol of good fortune and success so far as he could tell. He had had it for as long as he could remember, and one of the first questions that he had ever posed at Richard was the question of how he got it.

"I have always assumed that you got it sometime during the murder of your parents." He had finally said, after a moment of thought. "I don't know anything more than that."

_I don't know_ – that was a phrase rarely spoken by Richard Parker, who knew many things and did not ever lie to Harry, even when it was more convenient to do so.

Richard turned away from stove, sliding the fresh bacon onto his and Harry's plates.

"Wash your face after you eat." He said, pointing absently at the smear of ink that trailed across Harry's cheek.

About once a week, usually before they went down to the bookshop but sometimes on other days, Richard would dress Harry up as an almost miniature version of himself, with a dress shirt, vest and trousers that were all the right size for once, and put him to work fetching and organizing books in the back of Blackwell's for his pocket money, which meant that he was almost making minimum wage doing something that he would have gladly done for nothing at all.

Richard was now looking over his pocket calendar, frowning as he looked at the remaining orders that had been put in.

"Thirty-six," he finally said, meeting Harry's gaze with a hint of worry. "That's two less jobs from last year."

"Did you count the orders that Mr. Elkhart put in?"

Richard sighed. "Thirty-nine then. But thirty-six that we're getting paid for."

Harry tilted his head. His father had never really been a man to simply give things away. "Why aren't you charging Mr. Elkhart for his repairs, then?"

Richard chuckled.

"I owe him for a spot of trouble that I gave him some time ago. Free book repairs are the least I could do to repay him. You know how I detest owing people for any longer than necessary." He ruffled Harry's hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Richard went to answer it while Harry finished his bacon and then scuttled off to the bathroom to wash his face free of ink and bacon grease. He was just coming back when he saw Richard looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Harry," he said. "Some twit tried to cut off a truck and caused a pileup all by Blackwell's. It doesn't sound like anyone was seriously injured, but the whole area is being cordoned off while they sort out the mess."

Harry frowned. "Now what?" he asked. With their normal Saturday out of the question, would they stay at home and spend the whole afternoon repairing books or would they do something else?

Richard looked out the window thoughtfully.

"What do your schoolmates typically do on the weekend?" he finally asked.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe both his luck and the fact that Richard was willing to go to a zoo, of all places, was sitting next to his guardian on a crowded bus that was on its way to the zoo for the first time in his life. He hoped that nothing too strange would happen today, if not for his own sake, but rather for the sake of his guardian.

The problem with that hope was that strange things just happened around Harry, regardless of if he wanted them too or not.

Once, when he was much smaller, Harry had jostled one of the larger book stacks, causing a thick volume to nearly break open his skull. The 'nearly' was affected because just as the book came within an inch of possibly ending his life, its momentum was arrested instantly before floating back up to its previous position. Richard had been reduced to stares and monosyllabic gibbering and it had taken a few minute of vigorous hugging on Harry's part to snap him out of it. Richard had refused to let Harry out of his sight for more than a minute for a whole week.

Another time, one of Richard's pushy relatives, one of his aunts, Harry had thought, had sent them a truly hideous sweater, a revolting orange and maroon affair that was exceedingly scratchy. Richard had insistent on Harry putting on the sweater just long enough to take a quick photo to send off to the aunt before setting the sweater aflame. But each time that he tried to pull the sweater over Harry's head, the sweater seemed to shrink down a size, until it was only fit for a hand puppet and certainly not any manner of fit for Harry. Richard had waved this away as it having shrunk in the wash before setting it on fire in the sink.

One other time, which he had never told Richard about, he had been running from a gang of bullies at his school and, much to the surprise of all involved, suddenly found himself sitting in a secluded corner of the school library where the librarian only occasionally checked for illicit activities. Harry had supposed that the wind had caught him in mid-jump and helped him through a window.

But today, absolutely nothing would go awry. He was going someplace that wasn't home, school or a musty-smelling bookshop. He smiled to himself at the thought of actually seeing all of the animals that he had read about. Lions and tigers and serpents of incredible size…

Harry watched the vehicles moving by with mild curiosity, especially the motorcycles. "I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering suddenly. "It was flying."

Richard 'hmm'ed noncommittally. "They don't typically do that, you know."

"I know they don't," Harry said defensively. "It was only a dream." But he wished that he hadn't said anything. Richard was watching him out of the corner of his eye in the same way that he would often look at a book that was a strange misprinted edition. It was all too analytical for Harry, who turned to look out the window again.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. Richard had bought lemon ice pops for the two of them from the lady selling ice creams at the entrance. It wasn't bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head, which reminded Harry immensely of one of the biggest bullies at his school, aside from the face that it wasn't blonde.

Harry had the best Saturday that he'd had in a long time. They had visited all of the great cats, where the tiger had given an almighty roar as they passed, and had looked in on all the exotic birds in their rainbow of feathers. It was when they went to the reptile house that things got odd.

It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. A pair of boys, one exceedingly fat and the other much thinner, had their faces pushed up against the window belonging to the largest snake in the place. While it could have easily crushed the life out of the two miscreants and the useless adults that were supposed to be attending them, at the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

"Make it move!" The fat boy whined.

His minder rapped in the glass. The gesture was summarily ignored by the snake.

"Do it again!"  
The action was repeated with an equal amount of success.

"This is boring." The fat boy moaned as he shuffled away.

Harry moved in front of the tank and, after reading the tiny sign next to the tank, looked intently at the great serpent. Considering how little room there was for it to move, he wouldn't have been surprised to find out that the snake had already died of boredom – no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to get a rise out of it all day long. Harry supposed that the only experience worse would be the existence of someone stuck in one of those old freak shows that would tour the country showing off people's deformities for pocket change.

The snake suddenly seemed to come to life, ever so slowly raising its head until its eyes were level with Harry's.

It flicked its tongue at him and tilted its head in an almost wink-like gesture.

Harry stared. Then he quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching. Only Richard, who was looking at the reptile with a tight expression, was watching. He turned back to the snake and returned the wink.

The snake jerked its head towards the fat child and his minder, and then sent a glance heavenwards. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly:

"_I get that all the time."_

"I know," Harry mumbled through the glass, though he wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

Harry read the little sign again on a whim.  
"It's a real pity that this is the only kind of life you've ever known on top of it all, isn't it?"

As the snake nodded in agreement, a deafening shout behind Harry made the two of them jump. "DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T _BELIEVE_ WHAT IT'S DOING!"

The fat boy, apparently the summoned Dudley, came waddling towards them at his top speed.

"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell roughly on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened – one second, Dudley and his friend were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, one had leapt back howling in horror as his friend had tipped in.

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor and sliding in-between Richard's frozen legs as the reptile house devolved into chaos. People were screaming and running for the exits as the snake tried to make good on its escape.

Perhaps Harry had imagined it, but he could have sworn that as the snake swiftly slipped past him, a low, hissing voice had said, "Brazzzil, here I come…. Thanksss, amigo."

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

"But that glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"

It had taken the zoo director himself to calm down the screaming family that had almost certainly caused the disaster in the first place, giving them tea whilst he verbally prostrated himself before them. A few apologies were given to Richard for the disturbance, but not so many as were given to the hysterical family.

It was then that Richard decided that it was time to go home. As they left, Harry noticed that Mr. Dursley's spindly wife had been watching him with an expression that best said 'good riddance'.

Harry lay in his darkened room much later, wishing that his clock was visible in the dark. He had no idea what time it was and he had no idea if Richard was asleep yet. Until he was, Harry couldn't risk getting up to pace out his thoughts.

He had lived with Richard Parker almost ten years, ten great years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby and his parents had been murdered by a man whose name Richard Parker knew not. He couldn't remember anything that would have actually been part of a murder. Sometimes, though, when he strained his memory late in the night when he couldn't go to sleep, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain in his forehead. This, he supposed, was from whatever had happened to give him his scar, though he couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. He couldn't remember his parents at all. Richard had never known them, let alone seen them and there were no photographs of them that they could find anywhere.

Richard was able to give Harry their names though, and, despite being close to nothing at all, Harry held the names James and Lily close to his heart. He had hoped, when he was younger, that some relation would find him and tell him all about his lost parents, but no-one ever came, which was alright; Richard was all Harry could have ever wanted in a father. Yet sometimes he noticed certain strangers in the street who seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had once bowed to him once while he was shopping with Richard. After asking Harry in the most casual way if he knew the man, Richard had gone back to the shopping, carefully watching for something out of the corner of his eye. A wild-looking woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day before walking away without a word. The weirdest thing about all of these people was the way they seemed to vanish the moment that Harry tried to get a closer look.

At school, Harry had very few friends. He was far too bookish for most people's tastes, and the only real 'friends' that he had were fellow bookworms. But that was okay because those friends had a habit of becoming deliriously happy when they found out that Harry's father owned a bookshop.


End file.
